Enough
by StriderX
Summary: After the battle, the team muses over Shawarma. Based on 2nd bonus scene after end credits.


**A/N:** Who can resist a little piece of the Avengers? Best. Movie. Ever. Enjoy my rendition of the little Shawarma bit after the credits :) (Apologies for grammar errors.)

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

* * *

**Enough****  
By: StriderX**

Crashed around the dusty restaurant table, the Avengers looked anything but bathing in heroic victory. They were bloody, sore, and just barely awake enough to chew the odd meat and pita concoction before them. Semi-immortal, godly, monster, or soldier; not a one of them escaped the battle without wounds.

To look at them, Banner was the only one without blood and pain flickering over his features. But more than most, they all knew the worst pains were those no one else could see. No one missed the way he glanced toward Natasha, steeped in shame. Banner knew she was afraid of him. She would never show it, of course, but he knew how to read fear. God, how he knew. It was the flinch of her eyes when he spoke, the subtle hint for Barton to sit between them at the restaurant, the protective hand hovering over her injured side—injuries he knew his other half had caused.

Banner sighed. At least Thor had been there to stop the "other guy" from killing her.

Thor had been the only one with any real appetite left. After deftly commenting on the acceptableness of the food, he'd gone utterly silent with face and fingers hovering over his (and everyone else's) plate. The night found no blood staining his face, but the pain was there; deep, hidden under the desire for sustenance. Pain for his brother, pain from the stab wound his once beloved sibling left between his ribs. Thor did his best to ignore the steady stream weaving through his undershirt and down his side. Absently, he glanced at Stark. Thor figured, if he was close to immortal and aching, how much could his new friends be suffering? All for his mistakes…

Tony, for his part, was holding together rather well…considering he was actually _dead_ there for a few seconds. As part of his brain muddled over the verdict of shawarma, the rest found the energy to take stock of his team. He saw the winces, heard the silent groans. Not that he'd ever admit to caring, of course. In truth, it was all just an attempt at distraction from his own broken bones, leaking wounds, and pounding migraine. He was no stranger to the after-effects of the arc reactor malfunctioning, but getting over space suffocation, that was a new one. Desperate to change the topic of thought, Tony watched Rogers in fascination.

Bottle-made superhero or not, the man was impressive. Aside from a cauterized energy wound just under his ribs, the Captain was pretty well unscathed…exhausted enough to fall asleep at the table (more than once) but unscathed nonetheless. Tony almost snorted a chuckle. The old man was pretty cool after all.

Not so much unscathed was the dynamic duo of master assassins, Romanoff and Barton. It was far from a secret between the team that there was a special bond between the two, and it never showed more than right then. As Natasha made a weak attempt to finish her food, Tony noticed her guard crumble. For the first time, he was seeing her as a friend, instead just a mark (feminine or otherwise). She sat stiff with hands on her thighs. Spine straight and breaths carefully measured, Tony guessed at least half of her ribs were broken, maybe more. The streak of blood staining her porcelain face gave away her own migraine even more then the blown pupils or cautious blink away from light. Tony knew Barton noticed it, too. More than notice it, he acted on it.

With little more than a grunt, Clint nodded for Natasha to scoot forward in her chair. As she complied, he used a hand to lift his sore leg onto her chair. To the world, it looked like just that: a battle-worn man using a partner's chair to elevate an injury. The Avengers saw it for what it really was. It was their silent, subtle grasp for comfort after a dark day. For all Natasha's hidden fears, Clint's were tripled, blossoming inside his chest. He was beaten, bloody, and fairly certain that a million tiny little glass shards were piercing through his back at that very moment. Even still, he couldn't bring himself to move from resting against the back of his chair. His view was better from there; instead of glaring emptily at his basket of pita and meat, he could watch Natasha like a hawk over his nest. Strong as she was, he knew he'd have to hold her later, whether she wanted it or not—she would hold him, too—but for now, as he twitched his leg to press lightly against her back, and she leaned imperceptibly into his touch, that was enough.

It was enough for them all. Food, quiet, and empathetic company. For now, it was all any of them could ever ask for.

* * *

**A/N:** Like? Please review. If there's enough feedback, I may continue with a few more chapters. Thanks for reading!


End file.
